


Green

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Force Sex, Long Distance Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 15:10:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17102924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Written for the FFA 1000 prompt fest.She dreams in whispers.The Nightsisters find a kindred spirit on distant Tatooine.  Maybe it's actually Shmi who is the Chosen One.





	Green

She dreams in whispers.

In the day, she attends her duties and is thankful that she has never been considered anything but plain, by slave standards. She is useful and sturdy, but not beautiful. Her dark hair is long, but braided into a practical rope, which only is yanked on when she isn't quick enough to attend to Gardulla's demands. She isn't dressed in chain or metal or sheer cloth or nothing but body-paint, though she attends those who are and helps clean their wounds and dries their tears after. She does not attend the men, another handles that.

She returns to her plain bed, in her plain closet of a room, the only privilege of her quiet, demure nature and useful skills in tending wounds, cooking, cleaning and obeying. She lives a plain life.

But she dreams in whispers.

At first, they only caress her ears, the cadence of words in an unfamiliar accent, overlapping. The eeriness of them makes her shiver and twist in her bed, but even as she struggles to understand them, she feels a low thrill of--

_Power._

Something other. Something different. She has never felt power before, but she feels it at night, chanting softly around her. It feels indescribably feminine and free, and in some strange way, it makes her feel beautiful.

She puts it aside in the bright, harsh light of morning, the suns cresting one and then the other, the whispers fading from her mind. She goes, washes, attends. She works without rest because there is no day off for a slave. She looks at the beautiful women, of any number of species, and cleans and treats their wounds, does their laundry, brings their food. Sometimes, they try to make the best of it and those become favored for one thing: For looking beautiful in Gardulla's court. Sometimes, they fight and become favored for another thing: They come back bleeding and crying until they are broken. Then, they're sold again, somewhere else.

Shmi doesn't let herself get attached. She is kind to them, but remote. Loving them would mean losing them.

At night, the whispers return.

They grow louder, and she begins to feel them sliding against her neck, stroking the column of her throat. The slope of her breast.

 _Beautiful,_  they whisper, and in her mind's eye, she sees _green_. Green like she had never seen before. It burns, but the heat floods her and fills her, and it isn't long at all before she starts reaching back to them, reaching for them, her body yearning with something she has never felt before.

There have been no men. No women. But whatever her voices touch her with sparks to life something inside of her she had never felt before, and when it leaves again, she is barren and colder for it, even in the burning light of the suns.

She wakes. Attends. Binds wounds. Does laundry. Works to the bone, and then slips into her plain bed, in her plain closet of a room, to return to something extraordinary.

 _Sister,_  they whisper. _Sister,_  they whisper, and she gasps as fire hot fingers slide against her skin.

 _Who are you?_ she asks, but they never answer her.

She knows the track of days because she has little choice but to. She knows every festival and celebration, and is expected to handle those things appropriately from her end. Shmi has been in the shadows for so long that the lines on her back and scars on her skin have faded to silvery-white, against her desert-spotted skin, but she still remembers the white-hot kiss of the whip or the blue-fire pain of the spark. She performs her duty well, because what other choice has there ever been?

But the night whispers _possibilities_ , and the green fire fingers that roll her nipple are anything but pain.

 _Who are you?_ she asks, but they don't tell her.

 _My son was taken,_  they-- _she_  whispers one night, with a sharp flare of yearning and loss, so strong it makes Shmi's breath hitch. It is still the voices of many, but now, she hears also the voice of _one_ , and the love and the pain are all blended and blurred together.  She shares it.  Reflects back her clumsy attempts to comfort.

Shmi knows the track of days, but her nights are endless.

The first time that the green fire enters her, she cries out. No one comes to wake her, cries in the night are nothing new in the slave quarters, though rarely are they cries of this nature. The slickness her own body produces clings to nothing but her own thighs the next morning, leaves a wet spot on her threadbare bed, and she throbs all day from it, pleasure and need.

 _Beautiful, so beautiful,_  the voices tell her again that night and so many others. _Sister,_  they say sometimes. She wakes up slick and swollen and aching and feeling beautiful, and every morning has to wash away the night and become plain again by light of the suns.

 _The Fanged God and Winged Goddess say you are the one,_  they say, one night, more powerful than any other night. _You are the chosen one._

She sees eyes burning green, so green, in the darkness. She sees them burn and the pale skin beyond it, never touched by Tatooine's harsh, cruel light. She sees green, and red, and gray, and the fiery hands on her stroke her body to such ecstasy that she has to bite her blanket to keep from screaming it into the night in a way that would make the guards come, even if crying out is common here.

It's the last night they come to her.

Somehow, there is a tender sadness when she feels the last brush of them slip away; an ache like a wound a thousand times deeper than the scars on her back. She remembers the heat, the light, the orgasm good enough to bow her body on the sheets, sweat slicked limbs twisting, and the feeling of it inside of her, raw and powerful, but even more than that, she remembers that singular voice and the feeling of lips against her heated brow, saying goodbye.

_Don't let him go._

 

 

 

  
Three weeks later, the morning sickness comes.


End file.
